The sound of chaotic, clashing tunes filled my ears. I stopped to scope the beautiful architecture of the cathedral, and just barely heard the echoing clicks of my feet on the cold, stone floor. As I neared the front of the sanctuary, I could see more clearly the musicians who were warming up for the performance. I leaned against the giant pillar beside the wooden pews. Content, I breathed in deeply and felt thrills of anticipation for the upcoming concert of The Four Seasons. It wouldn’t be performed by a professional orchestra, but it was one that I could very possibly be a part of someday soon, and that made it amazing to me. I imagined myself, surrounded by all the other violinists, playing along to the greatest classical pieces ever composed. I imagined myself as a musician indispensable to the orchestra, yet built up and overpowered by the others playing along with me. Someday. I knew I would play for them someday. But today, I came to listen. There was half an hour to wait before the concert began, and already the seats were filled. I was content to stand on the side, soaking in every minute of the experience. I looked with envy upon the concertmistress, wishing I could be in her place. On her face was an expression of grace and confidence. I looked on with admiration as she entered the room, beckoning a roaring applause from the audience. After shaking the composer’s hand and tuning up the orchestra, she stood before her enthusiastic listeners, and drew up her bow. The music was about to begin.

I don’t remember how long my enchantment lasted — my eyes remained focused on the violinist’s bow gliding gently, yet boldly. Her passion was brought out in the glorious melody, through the echoing vibrations of song. Once, I closed my eyes; the overlapping crescendos of the piece soaked waves of emotion over me. Melodies intermingled; I saw a beautiful tapestry being woven by colorful threads, brilliant and beautifully patterned into one complete picture. I felt as if I’d been lifted up, above and beyond the world, and yet seeing the world and my part in it more clearly. I knew this beauty had been created by God, and for His glory. I began to wonder how many of the musicians realized what they were producing, and how dependent they all were on their Creator’s blessings. I glanced once or twice at the captivated audience, wondering if they knew why they found so much happiness in something so mysteriously beautiful. I knew. I wanted them to know. I wished that they could understand, and open their minds and hearts to the depth of God’s mercy and the beauty of the sacrifice made for His people. If only they could use their blessings as tools of worship!

Once again, a gift of God had been snatched by the hands of unbelievers, using it for their own glorification. They were all here, either as performers or as listeners, not knowing what they were enjoying — but making the mistake that it was ultimately for their own enjoyment. If only they knew the Chief Musician! I longed to ask the people, What is your passion for? Where do you think this music is coming from? It seemed to me to be so obviously manifested. God was glorified through His own loveliness of creation, even if men would not utter words of credit to Him. I knew His story, and its end: God will be glorified. And here and now, whether tongues were willing or ready to confess it, God is glorified. And again, I found myself lost in the story of the song.

My desire to be a part of this orchestra only grew stronger. I wanted to offer my gift, gladly acknowledging my dependence on my LORD and worshipping Him openly, while surrounded by those who did not know or pay heed to Him. One day, I did join; I look back on my time of service there fondly. I never expected to be part of such glorious music-making; yet, at the same time, I knew from that night onward that there was no way of escaping it. Music was in me, and I had to let it free.

Upon exiting the cathedral, I looked into the sky to see that it was snowing outside. The sky was a soft, swirling midnight blue, streaked with silver clouds. Soft flakes sang their own melody as they drifted down onto the frozen earth. In everything, I detected a song. It seemed to me that music was the language of life. When words cannot express the heart, music takes over. It whispers secret sweetness into my ears. I could still hear the dancing tunes of Vivaldi in my head. I smiled finally in contentment. The concert was over, but the song’s story was not. My heart was strengthened in the knowledge of God’s power over His world. I could enjoy His gifts because He had made Himself known to me, and drawn me into fellowship with Him. Within the body of Christ, music will always be lifted into the heavens, in adoration of our Saving King. I knew that waves of crescendos would only grow more glorious, unto victory, and in worship to Almighty God, the Chief Musician.